


Bringing Good Cheer

by therestlessbrook



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays, kastlechristmas2k19, post season 1 of the punisher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21951352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook
Summary: In which Karen finds a puppy, Frank Castle, and holiday cheer—more or less in that order.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 19
Kudos: 208
Collections: kastlechristmas2k19





	Bringing Good Cheer

The sidewalks are slick with ice and crusted salt when she finds the dog.

It’s hiding behind a dumpster, dark eyes peering out at the bustle of holiday shoppers. Karen only sees it because she’s made a career of looking into places that most people would overlook. Her eyes snag on the movement and she stands there, wondering if there’s a tiny raccoon hiding in that alleyway. Then the dog takes half a step and she sees the brown fur and dark eyes.

It’s a puppy. Small enough to fit into her arms. It looks like maybe some kind of Labrador mix, but she’s never been an expert on dog breeds. Karen takes a step into the alley. She isn’t really dressed for the weather; the downside of working as a reporter is that sometimes she has to dress up for the occasional press conference, and she’s in heels and a sheath dress. Her coat does a pretty good job of fending off the cold, but she can still feel the chill settling into the gaps between her gloves and sleeves.

“Hey,” she says softly.

The puppy looks up at her and cringes back. It must be a stray—or lost. Karen squats down, which she considers quite a feat in her heels. She holds out a hand, offering her fingers for sniffing.

The puppy snuffles, then steps closer. It sniffs her gloves, then looks at Karen questioningly.

“Hey,” she says again, “you lost, sweetie?”

The dog wags its tail once. It takes another step closer.

“Please don’t bite me if I pick you up,” she says. She scratches at the dog’s ears first, then down to its neck. The dog begins wagging its tail harder and leans into the touch. If a dog could look hopeful and tentative, this one does. She reaches beneath the dog’s forelegs and picks it up. She half-expects the animal to begin twisting and writhing, trying to escape, but rather the dog buries its snout in her ear and begins licking at her neck. It’s a little heavier than she expected: maybe around twelve pounds or so.

Karen opens up her coat, trying to wrap the edges around the puppy as she carries it out of the alleyway. It’s shivering and the pads of its paws are freezing. “Come on, let’s get you somewhere warm,” Karen tells it.

Her apartment is dark when she returns home and she flicks on the light before stepping out of her shoes. She doesn’t exactly have a puppy-friendly home, so she carries the puppy into the bathroom and sets it down inside of the bath tub. It’s small enough that it can’t easily escape and it spends a few moments sniffing at the tub while Karen fills a bowl of water. She doesn’t have dog food… but she does have leftovers. She finds the remnants of last night’s Korean barbecue. She, Foggy, and Marci all went out to eat to celebrate Foggy’s week off for the holidays. It was busy and loud, and the noise of the company helped drive away the space at the table where another person should have sat.

Karen gives the puppy a few pieces of chicken. It falls upon the food ravenously, which gives Karen a few moments to study it.

It is definitely a male dog, she sees. He’s all gangly legs and oversized paws. He’ll probably grow to be a medium or large-sized dog, but for now he’s small enough to fit in her arms.

“What am I going to do with you?” she says.

The problem with finding a dog the day before Christmas eve is that shelters will be closed and even most vet’s offices will probably be shut down. There’s an emergency animal hospital, but this dog seems healthy enough. He’s eating, at least.

“What am I going to do with you?” she repeats quietly. She likes dogs well enough, but this apartment isn’t technically supposed to have pets. And Karen’s life is too busy for a dog right now. She wouldn’t even trust herself with a goldfish, never mind a puppy.

Foggy is off with Marci’s family for the holidays, and Karen’s coworkers are nice, but she isn’t close enough to ask them to take a puppy.

Karen goes back into the kitchen, leaning on the counter.

She’s spent every holiday season alone since she was seventeen. It’s never really been an issue before—mostly she would offer to work over the holidays or spend Christmas watching Die Hard with a beer. But now that she has this thing drop into her lap and there’s no one to ask for help.

She lets out a breath.

There’s a scratching noise from the bathroom. It sounds like the puppy is trying to scale the bathtub walls.

She walks back toward the bathroom, but as she passes her tiny living room, a flash of white catches her eyes. The roses are in bloom; it’s entirely the wrong season, but with the warmth of her apartment, maybe the plant thinks that it is spring. Karen gazes at the blooms for a few moments. She touches one petal, feels the softness beneath her fingertips.

It’s never going to happen. She hasn’t heard from Frank since he vanished after the shooting at the carousel. He did make sure she knew he was alive. There was a note shoved in her inbox at work, a scribbled _‘Alive’_ left for her to find. That note was now tucked into one of her books—a paperback mystery she’d been picking up when she had a few moments. The note functions as a bookmark and… and she likes the reminder that Frank is out there somewhere. Maybe building a life for himself.

She moves without thinking. She picks up the flowers and brings them to the windowsill.

It’s silly. He probably isn’t even in New York.

She walks back to the bathroom. The puppy has managed to scale the bathtub and is ambling around the bathroom, sniffing everything in sight. He wags his tail at the sight of Karen, tongue lolling. He really is adorable. “Hey, cutie,” she says. “I guess it’s too much to ask if you’re house-trained?”

The puppy licks her hand.

“All right,” she says. “I’ve got some newspapers. Let’s do this.”

She ends up creating what she hopes is a passable doggy bed in the bathtub. There’s plenty of old towels, a refilled water bowl, and more chicken. She finds a stray sock and knots it a few times, giving it to the puppy as a chew toy.

Karen makes herself dinner—well she rewarms her own leftovers—and eats them beside the tub. She watches the puppy play with the knotted sock for a while, then he yawns and curls up in the makeshift bed. Now that he’s fed and warm, he seems more than content. “At least you’re an easy houseguest,” she says. “Tomorrow I’ll get you some real dog food. We can hang out until the shelters open after Christmas. And then you’ll go to some nice family who really wants a puppy—or maybe your owners will report you missing.”

The puppy twitches in sleep, but doesn’t otherwise respond.

It’s been a long day, and Karen only gets in perhaps half an hour of reading on the couch before she has to set her book aside and goes to bed. The sound of the wind is nice, now that she’s snugly indoors. Snow whips against the windows and the last thing Karen thinks before falling asleep is that it’s a good thing she saw that puppy when she did.

Sometime in the night, she hears the knocking.

She sits bolt upright, heart throbbing. A glance at her alarm clock and—it’s three in the morning. Who knocks on a door at three in the morning?

It’s bad news. A cop or someone trying to break in. Or—or she doesn’t know what else. Karen slides her gun out of the bedside drawer and slowly rises. She’s dressed in only a loose t-shirt and panties, and the hardwood floor is cold against her bare toes. Somewhere behind her, there’s a whine and scratching at the bathroom door. The puppy must have heard the noise.

Karen approaches the front door slowly, gun aimed at the floor. She waits for another knock, but there isn’t one. Maybe it was a mistake, a drunken neighbor thinking her door was someone else’s.

But then, there’s a low voice. One she would recognize anywhere.

“Karen? You in there?”

She sets her gun on the table and goes to the door, unlocking the deadbolt.

It’s him. Frank Castle stands there, his dark coat salted with snow, fading bruises along his jaw, and dark eyes focused on her. “Hey,” she says.

He’s here. She can’t believe that he’s here. She didn’t expect the flowers to actually work.

Frank glances into her apartment, his jaw flexing. There’s a gun in his hand—and that’s when she realizes he came here expecting trouble. “No,” she begins to say, but then there’s a scratching sound from the bedroom and a thud. Frank moves around her with the ease of a trained killer, his stride easily eating up the distance between himself and the bedroom. Karen hastily shuts the door, locks it, then hurries after. “Frank, it’s—”

The puppy tumbles out of the bedroom. He must have pushed the bathroom door open.

He looks up at Frank and begins wagging his tail. Frank looks down at the puppy, then back at Karen.

“You’ve got a dog,” he says.

“More like a houseguest who sheds a lot,” she replies. “I was going to say—I’m sorry. I didn’t really think you’d show up.”

Frank’s gaze swings to the flowers in the window. They blend in with the snow and frost across the glass. “Then why’d you put them there?”

That is the question, isn’t it?

“Because I was hoping you would.” She says the words with all of the honesty of a woman woken at three in the morning. She doesn’t have the energy to come up with a better answer. One that might leave her with more dignity.

She waits for his reply, but all that emerges from his mouth is a slight grunt.

Which is the most Frank Castle response, she thinks, with a small amount of humor.

“When’d you get a dog?” he asks. The puppy has begun tugging on Frank’s shoelaces and Frank squats down, trying to pry the puppy off.

“About three hours ago,” Karen says. “He was hiding behind a dumpster. I couldn’t leave him there. It’s freezing out.”

The puppy takes hold of Frank’s sleeve and begins a game of tug-o-war, yanking and emitting squeaky growls. Frank gently pries the teeth out of his sleeve, then he picks the puppy up, gently tucking it into the crook of his arm. The puppy wriggles happily as Frank scratches absentmindedly at the dog’s chest and stomach. Frank turns toward Karen, still holding the dog. “You gonna keep him?”

“I can’t,” she says. “My place doesn’t allow for dogs. But there’ll be no shelters open until after the holidays, so I’m hoping he can stay with me until then.”

Frank glances down at the puppy, his fingers carding through the dog’s fur. The puppy gazes up at him adoringly. “You think someone lost him?”

“Maybe. Or else dumped him there.” Karen exhales. “I know some of the alleyways here are where people will just… leave pets. If they can’t afford them or if they just don’t want them. It’s hard to find a shelter in the city—they’re all so overcrowded.”

Frank’s mouth tightens. He looks down at the puppy again. “He’s probably about nine weeks old. Just old enough to go to a new home.”

“You can guess his age?”

Frank shrugs. “Got some experience with dogs,” he say simply. “You have food for him?”

“He enjoyed some leftover barbecue,” she replies. “I’ll get kibble in the morning.”

Frank nods. He sets the puppy down and the dog immediately begins scratching at his own ear.

“He probably has fleas,” Frank says, and Karen winces.

“Shit, I didn’t even think of that,” she says.

Frank says. “You got a place you want to keep him?”

“The bathroom is set up.”

“I’ll take him in there,” Frank says. “You can vacuum in the morning. Odds are, no fleas will have jumped off of him. Too damned cold for that.” He reaches down and picks up the puppy, then glances around.

“Through the bedroom,” Karen says, and at once her mind is racing, wondering if perhaps she left anything too embarrassing out. She wasn’t anticipating Frank to just show up. But then again, she’s wearing a long t-shirt and she’s got bedhead, so they’re probably past that stage of their friendship.

Karen grabs the vacuum out of the closet so it’ll be ready in the morning, then walks into the bedroom. Luckily, there’s only her unmade bed and a bra tossed over the back of her desk chair. Nothing too embarrassing. Karen shoves the bra into her laundry basket than hurries into the bathroom. Frank has put the puppy back into the tub and is arranging the towels into a circular shape. Karen watches; this is one side of Frank she’s never seen before. He’s gentle with the dog, so careful that it makes her heart ache. She has always known he was more than just the Punisher, more than the soldier or the infamous skull. And here he is, trying to make a puppy’s bed more comfortable.

Frank stands, then says, “That should be fine until morning.”

He rises, and suddenly Karen is aware of how small her bathroom is—now that they’re both standing there.

“Where are you staying?” she asks.

Frank hesitates. “Been staying in the van,” he says, a little gruffly. As if he’s trying to ward off any pity. “I was planning on taking it on the road. Maybe getting out of the city for a while.”

She takes a long breath. “It’s going to be freezing outside tonight. Listen, I’ve got some extra blankets. I can make up the couch.” It feels like trying to hold onto sand; the harder she tries, the more easily he slips away.

Another hesitation.

“Oh, come on,” she says, a little irritated. “My couch isn’t the greatest and yes, Foggy and I did haul it off of the sidewalk and drag it up here, but it’s still not a van in a snowstorm. Unless you think it’s manly to lose a few fingers to frostbite, then go on ahead.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You’d lose toes first, not fingers.”

“Not the point.”

He glances around the apartment, as if looking for something. “Not putting you out? You… got plans?” He says the words carefully, as if he’s trying to feel her out. He must think what everyone thinks: that she’s going home. But she hasn’t been welcome there since she was seventeen and it never really felt like home for years before that.

“No plans,” she says. “Unless you count beer and watching Die Hard.”

“Those are your holiday plans?” He sounds more than a little incredulous.

“It’s either Die Hard or Lethal Weapon.” She smiles, because that’s old habit. “The two classic Christmas films.”

He shakes his head. But then something loosens between his shoulders, and he says, “Okay.” He straightens his shoulders. “Where’d you keep your spare blankets?”

“Closet in the hallway,” she says. “But I can—”

“You go back to bed,” he tells her. “I’ve got this.”

And without another word, he strides out of the bathroom, out of her bedroom, and quietly shuts the door behind him. Karen stands there. She looks at the sleeping puppy, then back at the door.

Two houseguests, then.

* * *

The next morning, Karen wakes to the sound of the someone moving around in her kitchen. There’s a moment of panic, because that means someone must have broken in—before she recalls that she offered Frank her couch. She rises from bed, pulls on a robe, and stumbles out of her bedroom. She’s gritty around the eyes and more than a little groggy, but even a lack of sleep doesn’t account for the strange scene before her.

There’s a large paper bag on her counter. And Frank is pulling things out of it like he does this every day. He’s dressed in different clothing; she notices a duffel bag beside her couch. The blankets and sheets have been folded with precision, set gently atop the couch’s arm. “What’s all this?” Karen says, nodding to the paper bag. Frank glances up at her.

“I have dog food and a flea comb,” he says. “I’m gonna need a bucket and some soapy water.”

She blinks at him a few times. The words don’t quite compute, not this early.

“I also got coffee,” he says, and slides a cup across the counter.

She picks it up with no small amount of gratitude. After a few sips, she feels human enough to say, “How are you awake?”

He shrugs. “Early riser. Went for a run, then picked this stuff up.”

She probably shouldn’t be surprised that Frank Castle goes for a run even when the streets are icy. Or that he wakes at the crack of down.

She pulls at the bag, peering inside. Besides the aforementioned dog food and metal comb, there’s also a few chew toys, a collar and leash, and a package of pee pads.

“You got supplies,” she says.

He shrugs for a second time. “Better to have them and not need them, then need them tomorrow when nothing’s open.”

“Good point.”

The morning is spent de-fleaing the puppy. This process consists of Frank running a metal-toothed comb through the dog’s fur, then dunking the comb in soapy water. The puppy keeps trying to bite at the comb and play, so Karen has to distract him with scratches. It takes about an hour and half of the soapy water ends up sloshed across Karen’s knees when the puppy decides he wants to swim. After that, they do give him a proper bath. The puppy loves the water, thank goodness. Getting him dry takes both of them and three towels.

“He’s at least half chocolate lab.” Frank runs a hand over the puppy’s back. “I think part terrier.”

“He’s a handful,” Karen says, as the puppy tries to shove his snout into her armpit. She fends him off by distracting him with a rubber chew toy shaped like Santa’s head. (“It was on sale,” Frank explained when she saw it.)

“He’ll be easy to train,” says Frank. “Labs want to please and terriers are smart. And he’ll calm down in a few months.”

As if trying to prove Frank wrong, the puppy begins running in circles, shaking Santa’s head like it’s his fiercest enemy. Karen laughs at the sight.

Once the dog has been fed and taken outside to do his business, Karen begins outlining the rest of her day. She was planning on spending Christmas eve working on an article about a new housing development, but that was just to keep herself busy. She didn’t plan on having company—never mind Frank Castle and a puppy. Her fridge could use some food. She gazes at the cupboards, then makes a decision. “Hey, I’m going to the store,” she says.

Frank looks up. He’s sitting on the floor, trying to get the collar around the puppy’s neck. “You don’t have to,” he says, a little gruffly. “I don’t need—”

Karen reaches into the cupboard. “You a fan of canned soup?”

Frank shrugs. “I’ve eaten worse.”

“That’s not a ‘yes.’” She rises to tiptoe, peering farther into the cupboard. “Or condensed milk? Or stale ramen? Trust me, I’m not going to get anything too exciting, but if you’re going to stay, we’ll need food.” She hesitates, forcing her breathing to stay even. Keep things light, keep things casual. “You are planning to stay, right?” She doesn’t make it want to sound like a pity-invitation because it’s not. They haven’t spent much time together that wasn’t under fire, and she’s savoring these quiet moments.

“S’long as I’m not putting you out,” Frank finally says. “And don’t give me any of that polite bullshit. If you’ve really got plans—”

“I really don’t,” she says.

He frowns at her. Like he doesn’t quite believe her.

She closes her eyes for a second. “I’m not traveling for the holidays,” she says. This time her voice comes out a little flat. “I don’t have any family that would want to see me. Foggy has plans; the office is closed; I was planning on watching a stupid movie and maybe getting some work done.”

He makes a sound at the back of his throat. She knows that he understood her words— _no family that would want to see me._ She does have family, but she knows that if she showed up on her father’s doorstep, it would be a frosty welcome followed by a thoroughly unpleasant Christmas.

Frank doesn’t ask, though. He merely nods, accepting her explanation. “Okay, then.” He rises, and she sees that he has clipped the leash to the puppy’s collar. Frank picks up his coat and pulls it on.

“What are you doing?” asks Karen, confused.

“We’re going shopping, right?” he says.

She thought she’d be the one going shopping while Frank stayed here. He’s still too recognizable—

He pulls on a beanie, then draws his hood up over his face. It does a fairly good job of making him a little less obvious. “CIA helped me out with my new identity,” he says. “Fingerprints swapped out. ID papers confirmed. Got a bit of a payoff, too. It’s a bribe to keep my mouth shut—and to soothe their own conscience.” He zips up the coat and nods at her.

She reaches for her own coat.

* * *

The grocery store is chaos incarnate.

She should have realized—it’s the day before Christmas. The place is mobbed with people doing last minute shopping. She watches two customers almost get in a fist fight over the last bag of marshmallows, the clerks look harried as they try to restock the shelves, and there’s a veritable stampede when the loudspeakers announce there is fresh bread in the bakery section.

Karen gazes at the crowds. If it were just her, she’d probably just retreat and eat the canned soup at home. But Frank has the kind of grim-faced determination she’s seen when he faced down hired killers. “Come on,” he says, picking up a basket. “Cart’ll be too hard to navigate in here.”

Karen has the puppy’s leash. The puppy seems slightly intimidated by the crowds, but he perks up when Karen rubs his neck. He wags his tail, gazing up at her adoringly.

Dammit. She cannot get attached. She’s going to have to give him up after the holidays.

“Anything you can’t eat?” asks Frank, as they elbow their way towards the produce section.

“No, not really.” Karen dodges out of the way of a cart. The puppy bounces beside her. “I’m pretty much an omnivore.”

Frank ends up buying more produce than Karen purchases in a month. Which is sad, she knows, but salads aren’t easy to carry around when she’s tracking down leads for the Bulletin. One of the store employees gives the puppy a dubious glance before some kid spills a container of candy.

“I’m not sure this place allows dogs,” says Karen, as they make their way farther into the store.

“Who’s gonna see him in this mess?” Frank looks at the puppy. The puppy wags his tail harder.

They fill up the basket with a whole chicken (“Turkey’s overpriced and dry,” Karen says firmly), plenty of garlic, a bag of fresh cranberries, milk, eggs, and any other ingredients that Frank deems necessary. Karen half-expects him to toss a container of protein powder in there, too. “You take the dog out to the van,” Frank says, with a glance at the long check-out lines. “He’ll probably get stepped on in there.”

Karen fumbles for her purse, but Frank shakes his head. “CIA tried to buy me off, remember?” he says. “I got this.”

She would argue, but someone jostles her and nearly steps on the puppy’s tail. Karen reaches down to heft the puppy into her arms and carry him out of the store.

They took Frank’s van here—which is exactly the kind of van a mass murderer would drive. It’s matte black and utterly terrifying from the outside. Inside, less so. There’s a sleeping bag in the back, and the remnants of a person eking out a living in their vehicle—a shaving kit and some MREs and a few books. It’s the entirety of Frank’s life and it makes Karen ache for him. It isn’t pity—it’s empathy. She knows what it’s like to live like this, how lonely it can be. This is no way for him to live. It can’t be a money thing; Frank just told her he has money. But maybe this is… penance? Or maybe it’s just good old self-loathing and a dose of stubbornness. She sighs and turns her attention back to the puppy. He’s fallen asleep in her lap, worn out by the excitement of the grocery store.

Frank appears after twenty minutes, carrying two bags of groceries. He puts them in the back before swinging into the driver’s seat. “You ready?” he asks.

She nods. The drive back to her place is a peaceful one; the puppy sleeps for most of it and Frank is a good driver. It’s easy to watch the city slip by, to lose herself in the thrum and motion of the car. It’s an almost meditative silence, both of them left to their own thoughts. It’s only when Frank turns toward her apartment building that she speaks. “Pull around back. I have a parking spot.”

He glances at her. “Won’t you be using it?”

“No car,” she says, with a shrug.

The silence after that is significantly less comfortable—at least on Frank’s side. She sees his fingers flex against the wheel as he pulls around back.

“Hey,” he says, and she can tell he’s winding up to something. An apology, perhaps. An explanation, maybe. She still remembers that night—the flash of headlights just before the crunch of metal.

She’s come to terms with that night; she doesn’t need apologies or explanations.

“I’d much rather be alive with no car than be buried out in the woods and still have my car in existence,” she tells him. “So don’t you start.”

There weren’t any easy solutions that night, she knows. Not to save her, not to end Schoonover. Now that she knows a little of how deep the conspiracy went, she understands that to leave the Colonel alive would have been disastrous. And sure, Frank was doing it more for revenge than anything else, but he did save her life. She can’t ever forget that.

He nods, accepting her words. “You get the puppy? I’ll grab the food.”

“Deal.”

* * *

The puppy ends up running about her apartment while Frank and Karen spend most of the afternoon cooking.

Karen does know how to cook, for all that she doesn’t cook that often. She grew up in a diner, after all. The muscle memory comes back when she picks up a knife and begins chopping garlic. Frank works on the chicken, stuffing it full of fresh herbs and rubbing salt into the skin. It’s all very domestic and it’s something she wouldn’t have expected from him. Particularly not after seeing those MREs in the van.

They talk. It’s not small talk; they’re far beyond things like the weather. But Frank is still fuzzy on the details of what happened to Matt, so Karen fills him in on those events with as much brisk efficiency as she can. Frank, in return, tells her the details of what happened with David Lieberman and the CIA. She’s worked out the broad picture, but it’s nice to have the details. It’s when the chicken is just starting to smell amazing and the puppy keeps sniffing at the oven when Frank unearths a bottle of wine that he must have grabbed at the grocery store when she wasn’t looking.

“Rosé?” she asks, with a small laugh. “I always pictured you of more of a whisky man.”

“Harder to find that at a grocery store,” he says, good-natured about her teasing. Which is how she ends up sitting on her couch with a plate of roasted chicken and vegetables, a glass of rosé in hand. The puppy is given kibble and a new chew toy so he won’t try to beg for scraps. Karen turns on the tv, flicking through channels until she comes upon the opening notes of the animated Grinch.

“You good with this?” she asks.

“If it’s this or Lethal Weapon, then this is fine.”

She snorts, but she keeps the channel where it is. The food is delicious and she finds herself actually enjoying the wine, too. Frank takes the plates into the kitchen before she can rise, and when he returns, it’s with the puppy in his arms. The puppy settles in between them on the couch, resting with his head in Karen’s lap and his tail repeatedly hitting Frank in the arm.

It’s peaceful—the most peace Karen has found in years. She can’t remember the last time she actually enjoyed the day before Christmas. But here they are.

“What’s the name of the Grinch’s dog?” she asks, when the familiar dog takes the stage.

“Max,” Frank says, without hesitation.

That surprises her for all of half a second. Of course he’d know, she realizes. He probably watched that film with his kids, far more recently than she would have.

Frank’s thoughts seem to have traveled along the same path, because he says, “It wasn’t their favorite. The Grinch, I mean. Lisa had a thing for that really terrible version of Rudolph.”

“The one with the elf who wanted to be a dentist?” she asks.

Frank nods grimly. “That’s the one. I had to sit through it at least ten times. And that snow monster gave Frankie nightmares. Lisa teased him about it when they were older. One year, she bought him a stuffed animal version of the snow monster.” He exhales. “No idea what happened to it.”

For a few moments, they’re both quiet.

“What was your favorite?” he asks.

She glances at the tv. “Charlie Brown Christmas. Or the muppets one.”

“That one was good,” Frank admits. “Best adaptation of the book.”

“You’ve read it?”

“I like Dickens,” he says simply.

Add that to the list of things she did not know about Frank Castle. He has pretentious reading tastes.

Some of her thoughts must show through her expression because Frank snorts. “Like you’ve got room to judge. You pick this up at the airport?” He reaches for her paperback thriller. She left it on the coffee table.

“Hey, that’s actually really good,” Karen says. “And, no, it wasn’t the airport.” She sighs. “It was… left behind at the Bulletin. I grabbed it out of the lost and found box.”

“You have a thing for picking up strays,” says Frank. He glances down at the book. He thumbs through the pages, as if skeptically trying to find something worth reading.

Her stomach drops. All at once, she remembers. And her mind races, trying to think of some way to get the book out of his hands, before he sees—

The pages fall open to the bookmark. To the scrap of paper that reads simply, ‘ _Alive.’_ It’s the note Frank left for her, the only evidence she had of his survival.

Frank gazes down at his own note. His expression is still as stone and just as unreadable. His thumb runs across the crease in the paper. “You kept it?”

She wants to pass off the gesture as something light and inconsequential—but her mouth will not cooperate. She swallows a few times before she says, “Yes.”

He gazes for a few more seconds before shutting the book and setting it on the coffee table. The silence is unbearably loud in Karen’s ears, and she tries to think of some way to avert this, to make everything between them normal again. She’s revealed too much of herself in this moment, let him see too much, and part of her is panicking about it.

Before she can think of anything, the puppy wakes and begins wriggling to get off of the couch. “He probably needs to go outside,” Frank says, reaching for the leash. “I’ll take him.”

It feels like a tactical retreat, and Karen lets Frank have it. She needs to collect her own thoughts, to throw back the rest of her wine and remind herself that whatever her feelings might be toward Frank Castle, she shouldn’t put that on him. He’s lived through enough. She’s half-afraid that Frank won’t return—he’ll just vanish, puppy and all, but after fifteen minutes he comes back into the apartment. The puppy has flecks of snow along his back and looks supremely pleased with himself.

“He chased a pigeon,” Frank says, as if he thinks she needs a mission report.

“Good boy.” Karen squats down in front of the dog and brushes the snow from his paws. “You get those birds.”

The puppy pants happily.

They sit down for another movie—Die Hard, because it really is traditional. Karen makes them both hot chocolate, and the rest of the night passes without event. Finally, when the credits roll, Karen rises. “I’ll put the puppy back in the tub,” she says. “If you want to grab the sheets, I can—”

“I can make up my own bed here,” he says. He rubs the puppy’s belly as Karen hauls the dog into her arms and carries him into the bedroom. She doesn’t want him getting into anything he shouldn’t, so back into the bathroom he goes. The puppy settles into his bed of towels and blankets, seemingly tired out by the day’s activities.

She leans out of the bedroom door. Frank is shirtless, having changed into sweats. “Goodnight,” she says softly.

Frank looks up. The dim light plays across his bare skin in away that makes her mouth go a little dry. “Night, Karen.”

She quietly shuts the door and goes through her nightly routine of checking her window, then gun in her bedside table. The downside of living alone and working as a female journalist is that she’s had her fair amount angry letters. And those are just the threats from the normal, everyday assholes. That’s not even taking into account Fisk or any of the other threats lurking in the city. There are times she has considered getting a security system, but they’re either too invasive for her tastes or too expensive. Then again, she reflects, she probably has the world’s best security system sleeping on her couch. Tonight, at least, she won’t have to worry about intruders.

She glances into the bathroom, sees the puppy asleep in the tub. He’s adorable—curls up with his nose tucked between his paws. Maybe she should find an apartment that will let her have a dog. It’d be nice to have one around.

The space beneath her covers is a little cold and Karen pulls the blankets tightly around herself. She’s just falling asleep when she hears scratching at the bathroom door.

The puppy is awake. Maybe he’ll go back to sleep.

Karen closes her eyes and tries to think quiet, sleepy thoughts.

More scratching. A whine. It’s so plaintive that Karen almost sits up. But the dog shouldn’t roam the apartment at night, not with so many chewable cords and breakables nearby. And if she lets him out, he’ll just want to get into the bed with her.

She waits.

There’s a lull, and she feels momentarily triumphant, until the puppy lets loose a tiny little howl.

“Shit,” Karen breathes. Her neighbors will murder her if they wake up to the sound of howling. Not to mention report her to the building manager. Karen opens the bathroom door. Sure enough, the puppy is there. He scampers toward her, but Karen grabs him around the waist and carries him back to the bathtub bed. “I know,” she says, when the puppy gives her a betrayed look. “It’s not the fanciest bed in the world. But you only have to stay here a few more nights and then we’ll find you a shelter and a nice home, okay?”

She rises, turns to leave, and the puppy whines again.

“This is puppy blackmail,” she says.

The puppy whines louder.

“I’ll stay,” she says, sitting beside the bathtub. “Just until you’re asleep, okay?”

She reaches down to scratch the puppy’s cheek and ears. He perks up at once.

“Hey.” A low voice comes from the bathroom doorway. Karen’s gaze jerks over her shoulder. Frank is just an outline in the darkness, broad shoulders illuminated by the scant light coming in through the bedroom windows. “Everything okay?”

“He won’t sleep,” Karen says. “I think he’s lonely.”

Frank edges into the bathroom. Karen scoots to one side so he can sit by the tub, too. She senses more than sees his hand descend into the bathtub, and then his fingers brush hers as he strokes the puppy’s back. The puppy grabs a chew toy and begins chomping on Santa’s head with abandon.

“And now he’s fine,” Karen says, amused despite herself.

“Well, now he’s got company.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes; it feels natural to be here, with him. They’ve spent quite a bit of time with quiet between them, when they had to communicate with looks and gestures.

But maybe they’re both a little too comfortable with silence—and with all of the unspoken things between them. Karen looks at Frank. His face is turned, eyes on the puppy.

She has to ask him. Because some things can’t go unspoken any longer.

“How’d you know to come here?” she asks.

He glances at her sharply. “What?”

“I mean,” she says. “The flowers. I put them out—and it was dark and snowing and I was sure you’d left New York. How did you even see them?”

He looks down at the puppy. Like he needs something to focus on. She wonders if he’ll answer; more quiet lingers between them, finally broken when he takes a long breath through his nose.

“I was driving around the city,” he says. “I—I wanted to make sure things were right, yeah? Make sure everyone was okay. Went by the Lieberman’s and saw they were having dinner. The curtains were open. Stopped by Curtis’s. He’s dating someone new—I saw them getting into a car, going out. And then… I came here. It was late. Thought you’d be asleep—but then I saw the flowers.”

She thinks of him, driving that dark van around the city like a ghost. Checking on all of those people he wanted to make safe. Not that he would ever think of knocking on anyone’s door—no, he’s far too stubborn for that. It doesn’t matter that she suspects both the Lieberman’s and Curtis Hoyle would probably be more than glad to see him. That might have been even more reason for Frank to stay away. But he hadn’t stayed away from her. She remembers how he knocked on her door, gun in hand.

“And you thought something was wrong?” she asks.

“Something usually is, by the time someone asks for my help.”

“You can’t think that,” she says. “Come on—you have friends. People who enjoy your company. You know better.”

His shoulder twitches in an almost-shrug.

But she understands why he wouldn’t have reached out during this time of year. Because there’s such an overabundance of Christmas films and songs and advertisements all beating in the message that this is a time for family.

The puppy has fallen asleep. He sprawls on his back, the toy still between his forelegs. Karen reaches down, tugging the towel closer to the puppy. When she’s satisfied, she glances up to see Frank watching her.

“Why’d you keep the note?” he asks.

She thinks of all the answers she could give: maybe quip about needing his fingerprints to find him or she’s been in need of a pen pal. He’d probably let it go, if she did so. He’s good at respecting the unspoken boundaries she’s set up around herself.

And maybe that’s what gives her the courage to say, “Because I didn’t know how else to hold onto you.”

And there it is—the truth of the matter.

She half-expects him to run out of this bathroom. To leave her, because that’s what people do.

Frank exhales a shaky breath. His eyes never leave hers, not even when he leans closer. It’s slow, like moving through thick water. “Karen,” he says. He makes her name sound like a full sentence, like it means more.

She’s the one who angles her head enough that her mouth brushes his. It’s slow and light, tentative and aching at the same time.

Then Frank’s fingers curl around the back of her neck and he’s kissing her. His mouth is urgent against hers, and she responds in kind. Everything feels intensified: the rasp of his stubble, the warmth of his fingers against her neck, the smell of clean cotton. She wants him so much it almost hurts to admit it. It isn’t even just about sex, although she suspects it might soon be about sex, if this kiss is anything to judge by. She just wants _him_ —his company and his easy conversation and the way he can make her smile without even trying.

Her hands wrap around his bare shoulders, pulling him closer. He still has one hand at her neck, his thumb at her jaw, and the other is around her waist.

Both hands. And he’s holding on tight.

* * *

Christmas morning dawns with the sound of a puppy scratching at the door and Karen waking with an utterly naked Frank Castle curled beside her. She blinks at him, surprised. She slept surprisingly well, considering it’s been a while since she shared a bed with anyone. His arm is around her and she’s tucked up against his side. She closes her eyes, wonders if she can get away with sneaking in a few more minutes of sleep.

There’s a whine from the bathroom.

Karen grumbles and turns her face into the pillow. Frank’s arm tightens around her. The puppy must have woken him, too.

“We should get him,” Frank murmurs. “He’s still young. Needs attention. Not good for them to be alone for so long.”

Karen groans and rolls over. The sheets fall away, and she shivers. The room is a little cold against her bare skin. Frank kisses the back of her neck and she closes her eyes.

“If you want me to get the puppy, you’re not helping your argument,” she says. His mouth skims down to her shoulder. Another whine from the bathroom. Then he sighs against her skin and pulls away. Frank is the one to go to the bathroom and open the door. The puppy wriggles with joy at the sight of the humans and begins trying to leap atop the bed.

“Oh, no,” Karen says.

Frank reaches down, picks up a fallen tennis ball, and tosses it for the puppy. He races after it excitedly, barking all the way.

Frank returns to the bed. He smooths a hand over Karen’s hair. “You can sleep in, if you want. I’ll get the dog out of your hair.”

It’s a sweet offer, but Karen doesn’t want to sleep. Every moment that Frank is with her feels tenuous, as if it could be taken away at any moment. They haven’t talked about the future—they didn’t do much talking at all last night. She doesn’t want to waste a second of this, not when she’s unsure of how long it’ll last.

“I need a shower,” Karen says, “but then I’ll be awake.”

She does shower—a quick one. As she’s stepping out the shower, she sees that Frank has left a mug of coffee for her on the bathroom counter. Her throat goes a little tight—it’s such an easy, thoughtful gesture and one she never would have expected. She picks up the coffee, wraps a robe around herself and walks into the bedroom. Frank is dressed in sweats and a hoodie and he’s watching the puppy chew on a squeaky toy.

Karen has her coffee in one hand, and with her other, she cups Frank’s cheek. “Merry Christmas, Frank.”

His face softens. “You, too.” 

They eat a breakfast of eggs and toast, watching as the puppy plays with a tennis ball. When they’re done eating, they end up sitting on the couch together. Frank’s arm is around her, fingers stroking up and down her upper arm. 

“Jacob,” Frank finally says.

Karen looks at him.

“The puppy needs a name,” he says, as if that should be obvious. “And Max is too on the nose, Charlie Brown doesn’t fit, and I’m sure as hell not calling him Yukon Cornelius. So Jacob Marley.”

A smile breaks across her face. “You want to keep him?”

“As long as he’s not microchipped or anything,” Frank says. “Then yeah. I think—I think a dog might be good for me.”

“So you’re not leaving town?” She remembers his earlier words about going on the road and leaving New York behind.

“No.” She feels his mouth brush her hair. “No, I’m not.”

She relaxes a little. “A van probably isn’t the best place for a growing puppy,” she agrees. “He—and I mean, you both can stay here until you find a place.”

Frank chuckles. “Thought your apartment didn’t allow strays.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Deal.”


End file.
